His work appeared in the pages of Tout Paris, La Vie Moderne, La Revue Illustrée, and Le Chat Noir, &c.; superb military sketches came out in La Caricature; and every week he carries on a running fire of pencilled commentary in Le Journal, and Le Figaro, contributing at the same time to Le Canard Sauvage, and Le Rire. A special number of the latter paper entitled Tactique et Stratégie consisted of a short series of vigorous military cartoons, representing various epochs, drawn on a large scale, and some of them reproduced in colours.
However, it is by his stories without words that Caran d’Ache has attracted most attention, and, it must be confessed, they are simply captivating. Comic stories have been told by the same means in Germany for half a century or more, but Caran d’Ache is credited with having introduced the progressive drawing into France.
Caran d’Ache’s little tales need not a syllable of explanation. All is told by the subtlest of alterations in the expressions on the faces of his figures, in the movements of their bodies, or of other animated or inanimate bodies; there is never any mistaking the gist of a Caran d’Ache story. His attention to detail is marvellous, yet everything takes its right place, and the venue is never confused.
“THE COMBAT”
Nothing could better than—say—the set of thirty-eight drawings entitled M. Toutbeau catches the 5.17 a.m. Express. We trace the dear, fat old fellow through all his agony. He is asleep. He wakes in a perspiration of fright—ten to five—on with them—that accursed tight boot—almost forgot to wash—tie—good gracious, seven to—hallo, there goes a button—Palsembleu!—5 o’clock—hair done—now for my coat—I shall never do it! And so on, through all the terrors of hasty packing, ringings for the servant, getting, discussing and paying the hotel bill—umbrella left behind and recovered at the last moment—the dash into a crawling cab—and then Mr. Toutbeau is seen beaming in his first-class railway carriage.
Who does not know the Great Expectations set, wherein the expectant nephew, to his joy, is telegraphed for by his dying uncle; and how the latter miraculously gets stronger and plumper day by day, just as the erstwhile buoyant and vigorous nephew’s growing disappointment drags him visibly nearer and nearer to an untimely grave.
Then there is the little set of three Shooting Impressions of my Friend Marius, who presumably hails from the Midi. First he is in the North of France with his gun and his dog—nothing in sight, no game at all! Next he is in the Midlands, both man and dog are happier, There’s just a little, and a bird has been bagged. Lastly, he’s in his beloved and romantic Midi and there’s too much; there’s no room to walk for the game; they press round and caress the bloodthirsty Marius, a hare is making up to the dog, and one confiding game bird has brought its nest of young and actually settled with them on the gun barrel!
Another splendid set is that of The Finest Conquest of Man, wherein is traced the marvellous horsemanship of a swell, who, with the greatest of ease and suavity, completely subdues a very demon of a horse.
But we could proceed thus ad infinitum and yet never give an idea of the wonderful spirit of the drawings, which must be seen to be loved.